


Rhythm of the Night

by hamish_adler_holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:27:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamish_adler_holmes/pseuds/hamish_adler_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go to investigate a particularly brutal crime scene.  John panics, runs, Sherlock chases him.   (Im terrible at writing these, sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm of the Night

Another crime scene.  Lestrade sounded weary over the phone.  He said this one was particularly brutal and still we're going.  My hands are sweating, and even Sherlock looks mildly upset, gnawing on his lower lip.  I do my best to hide my shaking legs as we step out of the cab in front of the yellow tape, and Sherlock ducks under, holding it up for me.  I take a deep breath and follow, and we make our way to the victim.  I take a deep breath.  I can do this.

I can't do this. 

It's a girl of about seventeen.  Her blond hair is caked with the blood that's pooled around her.  Her throat is cut open, and I know what that means.  She didn't die well, or quickly.   

My ears are ringing and the flashing lights from the police cars are suddenly too much, too bright.  I know my breathing is loud and sounds more like hissing or wheezing as I take a shaky step backwards.  Sherlock moves closer and his mouth is moving but I can't hear a word he's saying.  My vision is blurring and I turn on my heel and run away, breaking the crime scene tape like a racer just finishing in first, and it tangles around my legs like a vine and I almost fall but keep going, running as fast as I can on numb legs. I hear Sherlock calling my name but I can't turn back, can't see the girl again. 

The wide eyes of the girl follow me everywhere, and the strangers passing me all have blood on their clothes.  I feel tears on my face and my vision blurs even more.  I hear loud footsteps behind me and someone is dragging me into the alley and I'm sobbing like a child and trying to get away, but I can't seem to feel my limbs. 

"John!" A familiar deep voice, warm breath on my cheek, and I stop struggling. 

"Sherlock?  Christ, Sherlock, I am so sorry."  I sink down the wall, half hiding my face, but stopping when I realize that either way Sherlock will know I'm crying.  No point in hiding it now.  I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the wall.  "I'm fine.  Doesn't Lestrade need you at the...?"  I let the sentence trail off, not wanting to think about it.

 I feel him settle down beside me and I look over as he stretches his long legs out in front of him.  Our legs are pressed together, from hip to foot.  Well, to my foot.  His legs stretch out impossibly long past mine. 

"He can probably handle it." he says softly.  "The evidence was all there."   

I laugh.  "I'm a bit embarrassed, running off like that." 

"Don't be.  Seven of the officers threw up, two passed out, and one had to be taken away because he nearly went into cardiac arrest.  Apparently, this is a particularly bad one, for everyone."  He bumps me with his shoulder.  "Even the bravest soldier gets scared sometime, John." 

I smile at my hands, clutched together in my lap.  "You aren't scared." 

I glance up at him and see how wrong I am.  He's pale, and his eyes are huge.  He has his hands in his pockets, and he pulls one out to show me that he's shaking almost as hard as I am.  I take it in my own, and he squeezes back.  We stay that way, breathing deeply and clinging to each other's hands.  We must look like a couple of insane people, sat in a darkening alley huffing and holding hands.  But the warmth from Sherlock's hand keeps me sane, centered, stops the blood pulsing in my veins quite to quickly. 

"I've run from my fair share of crime scenes, John." He mutters, and I smile, leaning my head on his shoulder. 

"I know, Lestrade showed me a video once." 

He laughs and presses his cheek to the top of my head, and I close my eyes.  We stay there until a rat scurries across his leg and he lets out a yelp so comical I can't help but laugh so hard I almost cry.  As he leaps to his feet, dancing and waving his coat around as if to shake off an army of invisible rats, I hail a cab and try to resist the urge to tape him.

On the way back to the flat, he scoots towards me in the back of the cab.  I lean my head on his shoulder again.

 "Thank you, Sherlock." I say, suddenly tired. 

He kisses the top of my head then nuzzles his face into my hair.  "Anything for you, John." he whispers, his breath tickling the back of my neck and sending chills down my spine.  "I'm always here for you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Bastille's (cover of?) Of the Night. Watch the music video, it'll tell you why I thought of this.
> 
> Leave comments? I love them. Feedback of any kind is appreciated (:


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